


call it magic

by aestheticisms (R_Vienna)



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 02:33:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1965639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Vienna/pseuds/aestheticisms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(I will always find you, like it's written in the stars--)</p><p>Owain scrubs at his Mark until it is raw and bleeding, and he really, really hopes that whoever has his missing piece is resting peacefully, counting the days on their fingers until they meet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	call it magic

“Things are never easy for you Exalted folk, huh?”

Owain tries to mask his displeasure at how disdainful she sounds with a loud _harumph_. 

“Mother said that the Witch of Ibyx Lane would be more...helpful…” he grumbles. Tharja snorts.

“Is that what they’re calling me these days? Lissa looks sweet, but she’s all chipped glass. Truly a perfect match for your ice king of a father.”  

Her heels make loud click _clacks_ as she paces his living room, left index finger on her painted cheek. She’s only the image of thoughtfulness, Owain knows. He’s still waiting for a sufficient answer, as he pulls his legs up this chest, and rests his chin on his bandaged knees. He buzzes like a cicada, and it only makes his father’s on and off, maybe-sort of friend more amused.

“People get bored, they get restless, always looking for something more to reach for--maybe that’s why the Marks changed. Too many problems, risks, with having the script, it’s been a slow process, really! Don’t look too down, kid.” 

Owain glares at Tharja until she cackles.

“Trust me, love, you’re better off with whatever you got.”

She pushes her sweater sleeve up until it cannot go any higher, it gets stuck around her ebony elbow, it’s made up of crocodile skin and pale criss crossing scars, and his eyes go wide as saucers. Her forearm is the color of blood, it drips down and around, curls into flourishes and into the Ancient Tongue, something he’s never seen before, it’s something he’s only heard of in the stories his mother told him before bed.

“What does that mean?” he asks, with his wrapped hands over his open mouth.

She gives him a wry grin.

“ _Night terror_.” 

Owain raises a dark brow, his confusion is obvious and Tharja’s amusement dissolves into something else, it’s hard to pinpoint emotion when half of her face is covered by a thick, black fringe.

“Libra’s not that frightening” is all he really has to say on that matter. Tharja begs to differ with a scoff.

“Come here, let me read your hand.”

He is hesitant. His hand refuses to move, not even a twitch.

“I don’t bite. Hard.”

Owain finally offers his hand, and she takes it. 

“Tch.”

That doesn’t sound promising in the slightest.

“I wish I had my mother’s deck, it would offer a more coherent fortune.”

Owain yanks his hand away.

“You’re not planning on cursing my son, right?” Lissa’s sweet sing-song wafts in from the kitchen, where she’s taking out a pitcher of lemonade from the stainless steel refrigerator.

“Of course not. He’s got a vitality my curses can only dream of accessing.” Tharja says flatly.

"Really?” Lissa responds, a little too excited for Owain’s taste, because he really didn’t want his not-aunt cursing him for the sake of proving herself wrong.

“No.”

That leaves both of them disappointed and Tharja looking gleeful. A gold ringed hand accepts Lissa’s pale pink glass, and the ladies take dignified sips.

None of this was really helpful to Owain’s current predicament, but okay.

“In any case, your son shouldn’t be worried about Soulmates and Marks, it’s a little early. He’s what, nine? Gods, when I was his age I was plotting the murder of my landlord, not who was going to be the permanent thorn at my side.”

Lissa and Owain’s identical horrified looks prompt Tharja to pack her things and bid her farewells.

“ _Sorrrry_ about the intrusion,” she says, not sounding very sorry at all. “Next time, I’ll bring Noire.”

She doesn’t.

Tharja disappears in a flurry of smoke and dust, and Lissa asks Owain why she thought this was a good idea. Owain shrugs, and drinks his lemonade through his favorite swirly straw.

“Well! She was right about one thing, though!” Lissa ruffles Owain’s hair affectionately, and covers his forehead with kisses until he whines with a drawn-out _Moooooooooooom_!

“You really don’t have to worry about it! When it happens, it’ll happen! Look at me now, hehe!”

“Mom, you told me that Dad took the transcontinental the moment he found out you were his Soulmate.”

Lissa blows a raspberry in his fluffy hair. “Details, details.”

.

.

.

Inigo rolls his eyes.

“Really, that’s what’s got you in a twist? it’s not that bad, to be honest,” he leans forward, furtive and secretive all the same, he cups his mouth and whispers into Owain’s ear. 

“it’s like a horror story!”

Owain flinches, and falls back, while Inigo laughs, white hair flying about in the summer breeze and the shorter boy of the two crosses his arms over his chest, and he tries not to look sour--Mother said he was his Father’s spitting image with a pout, _so let’s try to smile_! This also led to Lon’qu adopting his signature scowl, but _details_ , details. 

“Gwah, Inigo, you’re the worst!”

“And you’re not telling me off in iambic pentameter, is this really eating you up that badly?” Inigo’s perma-grin is traded in for a more concerned gesture, he scratches his temple and Owain sighs.

“It’s hard to concentrate with all this, er, I, foul adversary, take back your unkind words, and let us--”

“It’s even more painful than usual, just. Stop. ““Hrghhhhhg.”

“You’re not even trying anymore.”

“Shut up, Inigo.”

The kids slump onto the painted concrete, in between the faded white lines of a four-square court, back to back. Inigo reaches a pale hand to the sky.

“Remind me how old we are, Owain.”

“Twelve.”

“Then what’s the big deal?”

"It’s easy for you! Your stupid Mark’s a--”

Inigo blushes and throws himself forward, he lands on all fours, his knees scrape against the jagged surface, and oh, that was going to leave a nasty mark. Maybe he shouldn’t have worn pressed khaki shorts and a violet and gold embroidered polo shirt to the playground, like a _cool_ kid.

"H-how do you know about that?”

“Dude, we practically lived together last summer.”

Inigo cradles himself, mumbling something that sounded like a mix between a nursery song and a particularly bad curse, and Owain makes his way over to where he was, and offers his hand.

“C’mon, let me help you up, at least.”

Inigo takes his hand, but he’s still upset when he’s back on his feet.

“My Mark isn’t stupid.” he sniffs.

“Yeah, that was kind of mean, sorry.”

Inigo’s long fingers pull his sweater vest as low as it can go without pulling its seams.

His Mark was, at first glance, a very detailed blob, with sharp ridges and inky strokes, and over his fair complexion, it was particularly striking.

But when you stepped back, it was something else entirely. The strokes blended together until all that was visible was a spiraling labyrinth at the nape of his neck. 

“To be honest, it’s kind of ominous.”

“I like to think it’s about carving out your own path, chasing your own white rabbit."

“Eh.”

Owain tries to think back, but it still looks like a blob in his hazy recollection. He stuffs his hands into his yellow soccer hoodie’s pockets. Inigo’s a little star struck, a grin plastered on his face.

It’s genuine this time, and that makes Owain smile too.

“You’re just jealous your Mark’s boring.”

And he's back to his usual, jerk self. Owain and Inigo chase each other to the outskirts of the playground where the street met their neighborhood, and where they would have to split off towards their respective houses.

He wasn’t jealous, not at all, he thinks to himself when he wraps his hands with fresh bandages under the supervision of his ever patient father.

.

.

.

When Owain turns sixteen, he’s a lot more energetic, and the neighbors all tell him he takes after his mother. Oh darling Lissa, they say, because everyone he’s met is fond of her, and he’s not very surprised. They give him sandwiches and fresh fruit on his commute to school, and he ends up arriving in the parking lot with a basket full of food and a backpack full of nothing in particular. His bike takes him to and fro everywhere, and it’s really convenient and nice, Owain likes it because it’s easier to think of cool combo finishers for his favorite MMO’s guild while riding a bike, rather than while driving.

Severa was very explicit about how angry she was when he nicked the front end of her cherry red, vintage beauty of a convertible.

He also said it was definitely not his fault, he got distracted! There were more important things to worry about than getting to class on time!

So, he was stuck on a bike. For the time being. And he didn’t mind! Honest. It wasn’t like Inigo got to ride to school with Gerome, or that his cousin Lucina and her little brother, one of his very good friends!, Morgan, had protagonist privilege and had their parents drop them off at school.

At least he wasn’t alone on his journey. Cynthia was a very good companion. Her orange hair bounces wildly underneath her clunky blue bike helmet, she’s always grinning and full of energy, and it motivates him to keep going, to keep going faster and faster until he’s crashing against the red brick of their high school’s welcome sign.

He’s come to know the words very well.

YLISSE HIGH SCHOOL, HOME OF THE SHEPHERDS.

It doesn’t make it any less painful.

“Ouch…”

“Oh, c’mon Owain! It wasn’t nearly as hard as last week’s collision!”

She helps him back up, brushes off his shoulders, and adjusts his helmet.

“Honestly! You were going at least five miles faster last time.” She sticks out her tongue, and Owain wills himself not to scowl. Her helmet’s at her side, tucked under her arm, and he imitates the action, no use in wearing it after that stunt. They walk their bikes to the shiny silver racks in front of the school’s flag pole, and after that, make their way to their homeroom.

Their seats are in the back, next to the windows, she sits in front of him, and Cynthia starts up a conversation with Nah, elbowing her in a teasing manner. Nah throws her a scowl, but her ears are bright red.

“--Soooooo, how was it!”

“None of your business, that’s how!”

The comeback is childish, and laughable at best, and Cynthia laughs and wraps the shorter girl in a hug, lifting her up. Nah kicks and asks to be let back down, _please!_  Once her feet are back on the tiled earth, the petulant dragon princess, as nicknamed by some bitter second years on the track team, adjusts her uniform skirt and white knee highs, and presses her lips into a thin line.

Everyone in the room’s got her attention now, Nah lets out a small noise of distress, and is about to return to her seat, with all twenty pairs of eyes boring into her tiny back, when the door slams open.

“Sorry I’m late!!”

Morgan’s cobalt hair is windswept and disastrous, his shirt is untucked underneath his beige sweatervest and unbuttoned navy blazer. His slacks still have stains from last week’s soccer match, and his book bag’s open, if he looked back, just for a second, he would see that his planner was taking up space in the hallway.

“Hi Nah!!!” he says, with a big grin, and Nah wills herself to stay on this plane of existence.

The boy gallops towards her and throws his arms around her person, and she squeaks 

“Uh.”

Owain looks at Cynthia, and Cynthia updates him on the happenings of Class 1-C.

“Morgan and Nah are Soulmates! They found out last week, apparently. I was trying to get Nah to share the deets, but she wasn’t being very cooperative.” She puffs out her cheeks, her freckles stand out more than ever when she’s got that pout on. She’s sitting on his desk, legs crossed and skirt flipped out in ways that would’ve made Severa scream. At least the bike shorts were there? That must count for something. 

“But isn’t that so cool? I mean, you could totally tell, too, they’re like a fairy tale!”

Owain blinks, and thinks about his bandaged hands, and thinks about the secret the white gauze hides 

He clears his throat.

“Of course! it’s great to see my fellow allyversary has finally found his princess! Despite being of the petulant dragon variety. They make a good match.”

Nah shoots him another glare, and Owain gives her a thumbs up. Morgan’s nuzzling his face in the crook of her neck. 

“Apparently, their Marks were complementary!” Cynthia’s still talking. “Twin dragons or something like that, sev says that Nah’s spans her whole entire back! Maybe Morgan’s does too? Maybe that’s why he’s never gone swimming with us...”

Cynthia kicks her legs. “That’s so cool! I wish my Mark was that big! It’s kind of small, now that I think about it. Jeez, how boring!” 

She pauses momentarily, her hand flutters over her chest, over her heart, before dropping back to her side.

“Hey, Owain, where’s your Mark?”

He blinks a couple of times before realizing the question was directed towards him.

“It’s, uh--”

“Sorry I’m late!”

The deja vu was very real and very alive.

Their homeroom teacher walks in, silver hair in a low ponytail, violet coattails dragging behind her wiry frame, she gives everyone an apologetic look before setting her things on her desk. Class 1-C takes their seats, Cynthia hops off Owain’s desk, and mouths _tell me later!_  while Morgan jumps over a couple of desks to get to his. Nah sinks down onto her seat and melts on top of her desk, arms surrounding her head like a fortress. Her auburn braids clump together while she lets out a year long sigh.

“Let’s get started, I’ll get attendance rolling…jeez...”

Owain thinks Aunt Robin is a cool teacher, but he can’t keep his gaze from trailing to her left hand.

Six purple eyes stare back.

Lucina told him about his aunt’s Mark once, when they were kids playing in her front yard. 

“It has nothing to do with Father’s at all,” she said, holding a wooden sword, smacking Owain’s out of his hands. “Won again, by the way--I mean, Dad’s is completely different from hers, too.”

Owain picked up his sword and swung again, she parried his blows almost effortlessly.

“I wonder how they knew…”

He lands a hit, and she smiles.

“Nice one!” 

The conversation’s never quite left him.

“Remember to pick up your homework at the door!”

Everyone groans.

.

.

.

Gerome likes racquetball because he can play it by himself, but Owain’s desperate to get him to join his baseball team.

“Racquetball and baseball have absolutely nothing to do with each other.” Gerome glares from the safety of his beat up motorbike, on top of his fire and steel throne, he towers over Owain. Not that he already didn’t, but that wasn’t, really, the point. 

“But you’d be a great member of our ragtag team of misfits, you would be the sixth ranger that would lead us to victory!” 

“Owain, there are nine positions.”

“Regardless, you would be a great addition to our team. Come on, join us on our crusade against Ylisstol’s other high schools!”

Gerome sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose. His riding goggles are snug over his black sunglasses so Owain can’t decipher any of his facial expressions, from down here, they all looked the same. Apathetic and irritated.

“...”

“What was that?”

“...fine…" 

“I can’t hear you,” Owain grins, victorious, he tip toes and cups his ear. Gerome glares.

“Fine. I’ll join. Gods.”

With that, Owain punches the air and Gerome rides away. At the next practice, as promised, Gerome is outfitted in the catcher’s garb, and any pitch sent his way is caught. Owain knows he made a good choice, he raises his hand for a high five, and Gerome stares at it until Owain lowers it.

Okay, friendship wasn’t as easy as the movies made it look, but having Gerome on his team meant that the tournament wouldn’t be just one match. 

"So, this is Ylisse High’s pride and joy?” The sound of bubblegum popping makes Owain turn on his cleats. In her complete glory, Severa stands with her hands on her high waisted shorts, sunglasses perched on her broad nose. Brady waves from behind her, and Owain flashes him a grin. Owain kind of wishes that Brady joined his baseball team, but Brady insisted that he would rather "Watch them play, or be their umpire. Don'tcha think it's cuz I don't wanna play sports, asshole!"

Right, of course.

Severa's hair in its usual pigtails today, dark red tangles brush against her thighs, and Owain purses his lips.

“Why are you even here?”

He saw the way the rest of the team looked at his very good friend, and if they were going to win the tournament in a month’s time, they needed zero distractions!

Severa tugs at her daisy print crop top and examines her nails.

“I wanted to watch you guys practice, gotta problem with that?”

Owain and Severa glare at each other until Gerome clears his throat and demands they get back to practice. It was hot as balls outside and they didn’t need to drag this out longer than it needs to be.

“Listen, Sev, that’s really nice and all, but can you just--”

Severa takes a seat on one of the bleachers, pulls her legs up and wraps her arms around her knees, and props her chin on top of them. Her heart shaped sunglasses slip a little, and she makes no move to adjust them. Brady carries her bags and sets them next to her, but not without giving her an annoyed stare. 

“Go _teeeeam_.” she shouts unenthusiastically.

Owain grits his teeth, and calls for a team meeting. 

In no time, they’re running laps, and stealing bases, Inigo trips over third and Yarne tags him out, but not before giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. The moment of intimacy is not lost on the rest of the team, and Owain does his best not to tug at his hair 

The moment passes. Inigo jogs to the chain link fence and it’s finally Owain’s turn to bat. He takes the wooden bat, taps the earth lightly, gives it a little spin, and waits for Lucina to throw the baseball.

“Ready, Owain?” she asks.

Yes. Just throw it at already.

“Of course, blessed Cousin! Onwards.”

Lucina gives him a grin, she lunges forwards and throws the ball straight ahead, her blue ponytail flies with the force. Owain swings, and makes contact.

Everyone watches as the ball goes flying through the air, it zooms past the outfield, and into home run territory.

Owain can’t move his legs. His team urges him to go, _run, run, run!_

“Goddamn it, stupid, _GO_!” Severa screams from the metal stands, she’s up on her feet now, mouth cupped in her hands, he’s never seen so... _excited_. About anything. Brady yells alongside her, their voices blend and shake the air. 

The glint in her eyes is menacing and that’s what gets him to run from base to base.

After practice, Inigo drives him home.

“No Gerome today?” Owain asks, tapping his fingers against the onyx dashboard.

“Cherche’s got him under house arrest. He’s gotta go straight home.” He replies, without skipping a beat.

The car ride is mostly silent, save their humming, the radio’s set to their favorite station. Inigo sings along to the best pop songs, and Owain does the guitar solos with his mouth. They drive until they reach Owain’s house, and Inigo motions for him to get off the car. 

Owain thanks him and is about to leave when Inigo turns to look at him.

“Hey, Owain?”

“Yeah?”

“...”

Owain shifts his weight on his other foot.

“Speak up.”

“...hdwhat...wfht…” 

“Jesus fuck, dude, c’mon.”

“what do you think about me and Yarne?”

Owain arches a brow. Inigo tightens his grasp on the steering wheel, his knuckles are paler than usual, paper white.

“I think you took the white rabbit theory a little too seriously.” 

Inigo lets out a laugh, a shaky and nervous thing, he wipes away at his face, and Owain pats his back.

“Congrats, dude.”

Owain waves him away, and heads towards the safety of his home. His mother waits for him with granola bars and yogurt.

.

.

.

He scrubs at his mark until it is raw and bleeding, and he really hopes that whoever has his missing piece is resting peacefully, counting the days on their fingers until they meet. 

_“Things are never easy for you Exalted folk, huh?”_

Owain wonders if Tharja knows that from experience.

The Witch’s words still haunt him.

.

.

.

Owain thinks Severa is very, very, pretty.

It’s common knowledge at this point in time, really, she’s gorgeous and everyone knows it, boys and girls alike preen and primp at the thought of being seen by, or even better, being seen with Severa Tiamo.

She’s got her own atmosphere, people lap up the air she exhales like cigarette smoke, they cling to her and desperately plead for a moment of her precious time.

Owain takes her hand, and they take their seats in the front row, the wooden pew is uncomfortable and provides no alleviation of their individual anxieties. Their thighs brush, Severa thinks the dress she’s wearing might be a little too short for a bonding ceremony, but she likes how the color looks against her olive skin. 

The ceremony is subdued, much to Cynthia’s discontent, she’s pouting at the altar, but her expression smooths out to the brightest grin Owain’s ever seen when Gerome puts her hands over hers, and their Marks burn.

A pair of stained-glass wings. Cynthia’s are emblazoned across her chest, they stretch from one shoulder to the other, draconic in nature, about to take flight. Her dress is cut to make it the star of this show, everyone gasps and murmurs when her mark returns to its natural coloring.

Gerome’s Mark proves to be more difficult, his jacket sleeves are rolled up to the elbow. Feathery wings take up most of the surface of his pale skin, they’re the color of Cynthia’s hair.

He’s been kissed by fire.

Severa stifles a yawn, she does her best to stay focused, and Owain’s feeling a little bleary-eyed, too, they exchange a conspiratorial glance. She gives him a wink. Owain rolls his eyes. 

“--and we’ll forever be Bonded.”

The last words usher in a roar of applause, Cynthia jumps into Gerome’s arms, and smashes their lips together, it’s a messy display and Gerome’s bright red by the end of it, her lipstick smeared all over his face. She’s laughing, proclaiming a new era, _watch out world, Cynthia the Radiant and Gerome the All Right, the most heroic couple on the block_! 

Everyone laughs and follows them out, single file. Owain and Severa wait until the initial flood leaves through the double oak doors, he gets up first and offers his gloved hand. She takes it, her red polished nails make indents against the leather.

The party goes off without a hitch, there’s high spirits and dancing, Gerome and Cynthia take the floor, and for the first time all night, Owain realizes just how elated his best friend is. Cynthia glows, everything about her is light and noise, every step she takes makes her ivory gown sparkle. Next to Gerome, she is a supernova, and he is her abyss.

They open up the dancefloor, and Sumia’s crying into his Mother’s shoulder, that’s when Owain decides he wants a bit of fresh air. He gives a nod to Laurent, one of his tablemates, and the scientist nods blankly, distracted by something on his phone. Owain gets up to go.

Outside isn’t any better, but it will do. He pushes past the curtained glass doors, and a spacious garden greets him. A couple steps forward, and fairy lights deck the halls, each gazebo column with its own string, it creates an atmosphere fit for romance, and to be honest, Owain’s kind of sick of it.

He’s happy, he really is.

Absolutely elated.

“Owain?”

He turns at the sound of his name, puts on his best smile.

“Oi, Severa! What brings you to the ever present darkness?”

She arches a perfectly sculpted brow, and looks at him before turning her gaze to the lake beyond their grassy homestead. In her tiny dress, it’s shorter than he thought it was, it grazes mid thigh and clings to her frame, she looks ages older than him. The cut’s daring, even for Severa, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

“Owain," she says quietly. "Let me see your Mark.”

The question catches him off guard, he chokes out a very unimpressive “ _W-what?_ ”

“You heard me.”

Her hands travel to her hips, her long, long red hair curls down her back, and everything about Severa is larger than life--her sharp gaze, soft nose, jutting collarbones, begging for a touch-- 

“No.”

The air is electric, he can taste his fear, she takes a step forward, and he takes one back, it’s a tango until his back presses against one of the six birch columns, and Severa has his Marked hand in hers.

“Why not?” her soprano is scratchier than ever, and Owain realizes something else.

She’s desperate. Severa tugs at his glove, and he can’t do anything as it falls to the floor.

Her knee is in between his legs, and her lips are centimeters from his, and he can’t help but think that something’s gone awfully wrong, how did things go so awfully wrong, where did he miscalculate?

“We’ve been together from the start, you and me,” she says, softly. “I thought, maybe…”

Her voice dips into something that makes Owain shake, and her hand’s still locked with his, and he doesn’t have the heart to let go.

“It’s pathetic,” she sniffles. “absolutely pathetic, I’ve got the world wrapped around my finger and I’m still completely head over heels for you.”

When it’s out in the air like that, when the words fall out against the fabric of his nice, pressed blazer, there is nothing he can do.

She’s seen his Mark.

He carefully shakes her hand off and wraps his arms around her waist, and she forces herself not to cry.

Gerome and Cynthia fly out to somewhere far away, Belize, or something.

Owain and Severa share the back seat of a stretch limousine, her head on his lap, he runs his hand through her hair until she falls asleep.

.

.

. 

“Are you happy?”

“That’s an unexpected query.”

Laurent pushes his spectacles back on his sharp nose, Owain’s always thought Laurent looked like a hawk. Kind of intimidating, very intelligent. His eyes didn’t miss a thing, and they definitely didn’t miss the way Owain messes up his pass, the soccer ball ends up out of bounds.

“It’s just…”

Laurent watches as Owain jogs over to the ball, and waits for him to come back.

He wipes the sweat from his brow, and gives Laurent an almost pleading look. He’s struggling to form the sentences, they’re fighting, vying for the chance to slip out of his mouth, but without the pretense of enchanting metaphor and complex simile, it becomes a Herculean feat, clearly stating how he feels. 

He’s not even sure he knows how to do that.

Laurent sits down on the field, criss crosses his long legs, and Owain follows suit. He would’ve never expected the President of the Chess Club, winner of the Science Fair, and Lord of All Things Relating to Quantum Physics to be on their university’s soccer team, but here he was, in his regulated blue and gold shorts and jersey.

“You’re so happy with Luce, and I’m really glad that she’s with you, you guys are great together, but, don’t you ever, wonder?” 

“Wonder whether or not the Mark made the right choice, or wonder what my predicted outcome would have been if I had never found her?”

Owain fiddles with the grass, he tears pieces off and twists them round and round.

“Ah.”

Laurent looks up at the sky, overcast and gray. The sun nowhere in sight.

“Are you scared, Owain?”

He doesn’t want to lie. Owain looks at his bandaged hands.

“Yes." 

Laurent grants him one of his less terrible expressions, his eyes are soft and his lips are curled into the faintest of smiles. 

“Is that why you hide your Mark?”

“One of the reasons, I guess. As a kid, I thought it was the coolest thing, your Soulmate, true love, the things heroes went to war for, their blood was running through my veins!”

Owain picks at the small, bronze clasps and slowly undoes his handiwork.

“But as I started seeing it happen, the lights in people’s eyes, I thought to myself, what if I never find mine? What if they’re in love with someone else? What then? I don’t want what happened with Sev...”

His voice fails him.   

Severa was happy now. They were different people now.

Her hips were painted with gunmetal steel. 

Kjelle would probably not appreciate his knowledge of that.

Laurent hums.

“That’s a reasonable concern.”

Owain raises his hand up towards the ether.

“But it’s not a reason for rumination or for extensive amounts of brooding--leave that to Gerome. They’re your Soulmate. Even if it takes five, ten, even twenty-five lives to get it right, the mere fact you got to coexist with them is enough. Trust me.”

They laugh at the joke, and Owain nods fiercely. The weight of the brand on his hand seems to lighten, just a little bit. Instead of actual silver and gold, just the strokes of a paintbrush, instead of the looming future, just twin moons and an arrowhead, always pointing north.

The embodiment, the representation of someone to be admired and revered rather than feared. 

His Mark.

“You’re right.”

“Of course I am.”

Owain shoves his shoulder, as they lay back, and watch the gray sky fade to orange and violet hues.

.

.

.

“Oh!" 

“Sorry!”

Their identical apologies make Owain laugh, even though the girl in front of him looks like a deer caught in the headlights, she’s scrambling to help him up, after their collision. He tries to remember the last time a stranger didn’t have to get him back on his feet, and realizes he can’t, and decides he’s just got some awful luck.

Or good luck. The jury’s still out on that one.

“We gotta be more careful, milady, these flower shops aren’t exactly roomy.” Owain winks, and the girl pales, _oh, sorry_ , she says again, pressing her hands against her lips. He fixes his work apron, and leads the girl outside the shop, somewhere less crowded by vegetation and the thick aroma of honeysuckle and primrose. 

“Now that we’ve become acquainted with ourselves, how about proper introductions. I'm Owain.”

He sticks out his hand, and she takes it. Her hand is soft in his, much smaller than his own, and it fits nicely against his calluses and bruises. No, better than nicely. It fits _perfectly_. He thinks about the way her fingers could interlock with his, maybe they fit just right with the spaces between his.

“N-noire.”

He doesn’t expect his heart to lurch. Or his body to react so strongly to her name. He leaps.

“The Witch’s daughter!”

Noire flinches, and gives him a bewildered look, blonde brow furrowed, upper lip quivering 

“You know my mother?”

 _Did_ he.

He lets out a laugh, and she’s more confused than ever, scratching at the back of her head, her dangly earrings catch light and reflect prisms off the brownstone walls. Little silver-plated moons.

“I can’t believe it! After all this time, gods, it’s been ages!”

“H-have we met before?”

“Nope!”

The silence is deafening, despite the rush hour traffic and the hundreds of pedestrians stomping their feet, trying to get to their destination underneath the winter sun. 

“Oh.”

“Well!” Owain starts again, now it’s his turn to run his hand through his hair, oh gods, he’s already messing up. She’s holding a potted azalea, and wearing a thick, cable-knit cardigan over a floral-print dress. She’s got a mass of freckles dusted over her dark skin, they’re everywhere, absolutely everywhere and Owain thinks, he could probably count every single one--

“Maybe this! Will explain things, hopefully, gods, I hope I'm right.” He sticks out his other hand, his left. He pushes it into her small, delicate, beautiful hands, and prompts her. “You can unravel the bandages, they don’t matter.” 

“Er, okay.”

She adopts a more serious expression, bites her tongue while carefully undoing his bandages, after carefully setting down her new plant. A little tug here and there, and a snap, before she’s got half of it off, and that’s all she needs-- 

“ _Gods_.”

She breathes.

She’s holding his hands in hers, staring at the incarnation of her soul.

“Gods!” She repeats it again, looks back up at Owain, he’s smiling sheepishly now, like, _hahaha, well, yeah, I guess you’re my Soulmate, isn’t that neat? By the way, your mom terrified me as a kid and left me wondering if I was ever going to find you, so I’m really, not on the best terms with her, sorry about that_ \--

She cuts off his trainwreck of a thought process and proceeds to peel off her cardigan, and push back the straps on her dress, oh _gods_ , already? Moving so soon?

“N-noire, I know this is kind of heavy, but don’t you think--”

“Shh!”

She pulls them back into the safety of the flower shop Owain works at, she pulls them behind the baby pines and the sapling firs, and finally leads his Marked hand to the small of her back. Her dress is unbuttoned and half way down her waist, she’s shaking prettily in her polka dot bra, and Owain can’t help but blush.

“Can you see it?” she asks.

Yes.

Yes he can.

He traces the design, it sprawls from the small of her back to the span of her shoulder blades. A brilliant, burning sun. Sharp edges make the smoothest lines, it flows from crimson to clementine, and to the brightest gold.

And it resonates with him so much his knees buckle, and he’s on the floor, blinking back tears.

She follows him down.

“I could’ve met you, so long ago,” he says, choking out words between ugly gasps for air.

Noire places a hand on his cheek, wipes away the tears.

“I’m here now.”

She giggles to herself, and Owain wonders why.

“Better late than never, huh?”

Owain snorts.

He gets tears and snot all over her nice dress.

.

.

.

“What is with your family stealing everyone I love?”

Tharja gives Owain a sigh.

He squeezes Noire’s hand. Noire stands tall, resolute, gives her mother a level stare 

The ring on her finger is silver.

(To keep the wolves away, she said, underneath a rising moon. 

“Mother said the Witch of Ibyx Lane would be hesitant in giving us her blessing. 

The joke runs deeper, now that they know the truth.

Tharja does not rise from her seat, she looks at Noire, and then at Owain.

Owain thinks, about how it must have felt to see the love of your life find their Soulmate, and leave you in their wake.

Aunt Robin is a fascinating creature of spirit dust and age-old tomes, the true _night terror_ , but her past with Tharja is a story that never made it down in history. And the Witch, as the members of his family so lovingly called her, was left without her familiar, was left for dead in the guise of true love. 

He never thought _sympathy_ would be a word he would associate with this woman.

“I will give you my blessing. I will read your fortune, like I did when you were nine. It’s the least I can do.”

She is resigned.

Owain nods slowly, and lets go of Noire’s hand, he presents his Mark to the dark haired sorceress. Her sharp nails scrape against his skin, and she flips to his palm, presses her fingers against the ridges and lines.

“Sorrow, defeat, rebirth. The lines are still here, even after summers. 

The smile she wears is not unkind, but.

“Take care of my daughter, son of Naga. I will have your head if you don’t.”

Noire turns to him, and gives him a tiny smile.

 .

.

.

.

.

Owain presses a kiss against Noire’s temple, works his way down to the sun on her neck. The laughter that escapes from her lips is his religion.

“Where have you been all my life?” 

**Author's Note:**

> me, before: this is such a great idea  
> me, after: fuck this fic
> 
> in short: thank u for reading burn me in noiowa hell


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